The Goat In A Poncho
by xXdreameaterXx
Summary: From a Tumblr Prompt: "I woke up this morning to find you sitting in my living room with a goat in a poncho? Who are you? Why is the goat wearing a poncho? AU. Twelve/Clara. Whouffaldi.


_From A Tumblr prompt: "I woke up this morning to find you sitting in my living room with a goat in a poncho? Who are you? Why is the goat wearing a poncho? AU_

 **The Goat In The Poncho**

Clara woke up, feeling like her head was stuck under a bulldozer. She couldn't remember ever having felt so bad in her entire life. Actually, she couldn't remember a lot of things – the best example being: last night.

She felt thirsty, but there was no water anywhere in her bedroom, so Clara started to roll out of bed, misjudged the distance and hitting the floor with a groan.

"Ouch," she complained groggily, "Ouch, ouch, ouch."

She must have come home drunk last night. This definitely felt like a hangover, even though she didn't remember even going out for drinks at all. Clara staggered off in the direction of the kitchen, still unsteady on her feet. She wished she could remember what it was that she had drunk last night – so she could avoid it for the rest of her life.

Once Clara has stepped into the living room she stopped immediately. She swallowed and decided to close her eyes for a moment. No, this must be a hallucination from the hangover. Yet when she opened her eyes again, it was still there.

A goat was standing in the middle of the living room. And that wasn't even the weirdest thing of all. The goat was wearing a poncho and nibbling on the shoes resting on the coffee table. Clara shook her head. Goats in ponchos. It couldn't be real.

When she looked further up she realized that the shoes the goat was trying to eat were actually attached to a man. He wore a pair of ridiculous plaid trousers and a poncho matching that of the goat. He had a wild head of silver curls and was snoring beneath a large pair of sunglasses.

"I'm losing my mind," Clara said more to herself than to anyone else. The snoring man definitely wasn't listening, and neither was the goat.

Finally her eyes spied something that might hold the explanation to everything. A large, blue police box parked in the corner of her living room. Thank God. It meant that the Doctor was involved in this. Where the hell was he? Probably inside the TARDIS, Clara guessed, adjusting his bowtie.

Suddenly the stranger sat right up.

"HANDS OFF MY CLARA OR I'LL STRANGLE YOU WITH MY SCARF!", he shouted, his speech slightly slurred and with a thick Scottish accent.

He looked around, confused, until his eyes fixed on the goat and afterwards on her. Clara could feel his eyes boring into her even through his shades. She was so startled that she had no idea what to say, so she just decided to stare back in shock.

"Why's the goat wearing a poncho?" he asked.

"What?" Clara asked back.

"What?"

"No. . . WHAT?"

"Why are you asking me what?"

"Because I have every right to ask what, so WHAT?"

"You're confusing me," the stranger finally said, holding his head in pain, "Ooooooh, bad hypervodka. Very bad hypervodka. Never drink hypervodka, Clara."

"What?" she asked again, now more confused than ever.

"What?"

Clara put her arms akimbo.

"Okay, enough with that. Who are you? Why is there a goat in my apartment? Where is the Doctor?" she asked angrily, "What is hypervodka?"

Before he could answer Clara thought about the first thing he had said upon waking up. _Hands off my Clara or I'll strange you with my scarf_. Somehow, in the back of her mind, the phrase was ringing a bell and her mind wandered off to a dirty, little alien bar in some strange galaxy. She had taken a shot before swinging her leg over his leg, straddling the lap of this silver fox who was now sitting on her couch. He had sucked on her bottom lip and almost tore her blouse off when someone had approached them, asking them to either behave or get a room. That was when he had shouted at the blue alien.

Oh dear, she had made out with the stranger in a bar.

" _Who I am?_ Clara, you know who I am!" the man's voice tore her from her train of thoughts.

"No, I am pretty sure I don't," Clara replied, her large eyes staring at him.

"I'm the Doctor, Clara. We went to this little bar on Skelebor 5 last night and," he paused, "Oh. The hypervodka."

"The _what_?"

"We went for drinks," he explained, "And hypervodka can be a bit tricky when it comes to humans and memories. But don't worry. It'll all come back once the hangover passes. But you do remember your own name, right?"

Clara took a step back, still massively confused.

" _You're_ the Doctor?" she asked, still unsure whether she should believe that, "Okay, yes, blue box, madman, but why ever did you swap your bowtie for a _poncho_?"

The Doctor looked down at himself, obviously only now realizing what he was wearing.

"Ohhhh, the poncho. No, I don't wear that. That was a distraction. Cause of the Daleks."

Clara raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I know," he replied grumpily, "Drunk me thought it was a good distraction. It wasn't. We had to run away."

He held his forehead again, massaging it softly. "Straight into a wall."

Clara was remembering a little more now. After the barman had refused to refill their hypervodka shots they had decided to move along when they Doctor had passed a Dalek on their way out.

"Doctor, be careful," Clara had warned him.

"Don' worry," he had told her, waving his finger drunkenly in front of her face, "'Dis bar is a no-violence-zone-thingy."

The he had turned around to face the Dalek, who was sitting on top of a floating table.

"'Ey Dalek-Dude," the Doctor had slurred in his direction, "I don' care how supreme ye are, git off th' coffee table!"

The Dalek had turned his eyestalk in the Doctor's direction, but apparently decided to ignore the drunk madman.

But the Doctor hadn't been in the mood to let it go. "Urr ye sure ye'r nae a weeping angel? cause ye dance like one!"

Clara had only just managed to drag him away before the Dalek had started firing his weapons at them. As they had been running, or rather stumbling away from the bar, the Doctor had produced two ponchos from the pocket of his jacket. Clara hadn't even wanted to know what else was in there. She had also refused to believe that the Dalek would fail to recognize them with those ponchos on.

"This way to the TARDIS!" Clara had shouted at him, and only at the last moment had she let go of his hand before the Doctor had shouted "Platform 9 ¾!" and ran straight into a wall.

"Okay, I remember it now," Clara said, "You are _definitely_ the Doctor."

How could she have forgotten about the regeneration and everything after that?

"How nice of you to admit," he said.

"But how did we come by the goat?"

The Doctor stared at her for a moment before he shrugged.

"No clue."

Clara sighed and sank down on the couch next to him, petting the goat with one hand. "I will never let you talk me into drinking hypervodka ever again."

"Actually, it was your idea," the Doctor said, "So technically all we did last night is your fault."

"Oh no, you're not blaming this on me!"

"Well," the Doctor paused, "Lucky we've got a scapegoat, then, isn't it?"

"Huh?" Clara turned her head around, raising an eyebrow at the Doctor.

He grinned. "Scape _goat_. Geddit?"

Clara groaned and let her head sink into the pillows of her sofa. "As if the hangover wasn't punishment enough."

She knew one thing for sure. Never would she go drinking with the Doctor again. But she also couldn't wait until her full memory of last night returned, so she could start teasing the Doctor about all the silly things that he had done – once her headache had passed, of course.


End file.
